


lesser of two evils

by sparxwrites



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Burns, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Pre-Widomauk, Team as Family, Whump, autistic caleb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-27 00:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15013121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: Caleb’s running a fever by the time the rest of the Mighty Nein find him.He was expecting that much – he’s done this before, after all, knows that it’s a bad idea and will not go well in the long run. However, bleeding out in the middle of a forest is also not a good idea, and will also not go well in the long run. The difference is that bleeding out in the middle of a forest will go exceptionally poorly in the short run, so it’s a lesser-of-two evils sort of thing. He’s well-versed in Faustian bargains, made both unwittingly and otherwise. It’s fine.(In which Caleb gets separated from the rest of the group, and then injured, andthensome rather ill-advised DIY field medicine involving fire. The rest of the Mighty Nein are left to pick up the pieces when they find him.)





	lesser of two evils

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by an [ask](http://sparxwrites.tumblr.com/post/175147826116/fire-good-at-cauterizing-wounds-caleb-capable) i got over on tumblr @sparxwrites that said: "fire: good at cauterizing wounds. caleb: capable of producing fire at-will. also prone to getting hurt. you see where i'm going with this?". and i could _absolutely_ see where they were going with this.
> 
> as a bonus: some [background music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTLzqke528Y), feat. the song i wrote most of this to.

Caleb’s running a fever by the time the rest of the Mighty Nein find him.

He was expecting that much – he’s done this before, after all, knows that it’s a bad idea and will not go well in the long run. However, bleeding out in the middle of a forest is also not a good idea, and will also not go well in the long run. The difference is that bleeding out in the middle of a forest will go exceptionally poorly in the short run, so it’s a lesser-of-two evils sort of thing. He’s well-versed in Faustian bargains, made both unwittingly and otherwise. It’s fine.

“ _Hallo_ ,” he says, vaguely, when they find him. He’s busy, remembering to breathe, trying to pretend his vision isn’t tunnelling ever-so-slightly, trying to look like the tree he’s leant against isn’t the only thing holding him up. He’s stopped the bleeding, but pain is another matter entirely, and his side is a deep, steady heartbeat-throb even with fever dulling his senses. “ _Wie_ \- how are you all?”

“Pretty fuckin’ concerned, what with you being dragged off by some giant wolf creature an’ all,” says Fjord, his accent thickened to molasses by panic. Caleb laughs, because that’s funny, for some reason, when the air and his thoughts and the blood in his veins _also_ feel molasses-thick and about as useful. The laughing hurts, though, so he stops, wincing and hunching in on himself, and Fjord’s gaze focuses in on him like a laser.

“The hell happened to…?” Fjord starts, brow furrowing, but Caleb’s gaze has already wandered to the movement behind him.

Nott zips out from the trees somewhere over Fjord’s shoulder and bee-lines towards her surrogate son, hidden beneath her cloak and mask. Mollymauk lurks, eyes almost glowing in the shadow of the trees, and Caleb’s hind-brain gibbers _predator_ as though he’s in any state to run. Jester and Beau linger in the background, bickering, prodding and poking each other like the schoolyard friends he suspects they never has as children.

Caleb… Caleb _burns_ , slow and steady and inescapable. Business as usual, then. They are safe. All is well. All _will_ be well.

“Wolf is dead,” says Caleb, concentrating on his breathing. He’s got to remember to keep breathing, because it’s a conscious thing now, or else his vision tunnels even worse than it already is. “I, ah… set it on fire.”

He doesn’t remember much, half-blind with the pain of huge teeth sunk deep into the meat of his side – but he does remember the flames. One fire for the wolf, a roaring inferno that had caught its greasy fur like the paper wrappings of a cooked chicken. And later, one fire for himself, two glowing fingers’ worth of white-hot heat pushed into each tooth-hole to cauterise the endless flow of blood.

“Wasn’t askin’ about the wolf,” mutters Fjord, worrying at his upper lip with the blunted edge of one of the tusks that are slowly beginning to grow in. “Caleb, ‘re you-?”

“Told them you could take care of yourself!” interrupts Nott as she appears by his hip, grinning with pride, and Caleb smiles weakly back at her. “That’s my Caleb!” She must notice something in the glaze of his eyes, though, the high colour of his cheeks, because the smile slips off her face, slowly. “Caleb…?”

Mollymauk’s the one that steps forward, though, frowning, and presses a hand to Caleb’s forehead. The purple skin is blessedly cool, and if Caleb were more himself, he’d remember that tieflings run hot and he should be concerned. He’s less himself, though, so he leans into the touch with a shaky exhale, chasing the cold.

“He’s burning up,” says Mollymauk, eyes widening, and then his hands are elsewhere on Caleb, patting over shoulders and arms and sides, and the momentary relief is gone. “Where’s Jester…?”

“I am fine,” says Caleb, because he’s not bleeding out, after all, and because he doesn’t want them to get it into their heads that he’s not self-reliant. He can look after himself. He’ll burn, for a few days – deserve every second of the fire – and then he’ll be fine, he’ll be okay.

“No, you’re really not.” Mollymauk pulls open his coat, pats his stomach over the blood soaked and drying in his shirt, and Caleb wheezes with the acute stab of pain that makes it through the fever-dumbness. The smell of cooked meat begins to fill the air more heavily, sickly and charred and, _awfully_ , almost appetising, in a nauseating kind of way. Like over-cooked bacon. “Don’t lie to me, Mr. Caleb, we’ve been over this. You’ve got _friends_ now, and you’re going to bloody well-” He yanks up Caleb’s bloody shirt, and stops. “…Ah. _Ah_. Fuck.”

Caleb sways on the spot, leans into him, presses his forehead against the stretch of neck between Mollymauk’s coat and his jaw. Ordinarily, he’d cringe from so much contact, from such _close_ contact, but right now… right now, he just wants the burning to _stop_. “Ah- yes,” he rasps, “that… _that_. That is a thing.”

There’s a gasp, and then Nott says, “ _Caleb_!” in a tone somewhere between scared and scolding, her voice cracking on the second syllable. One small, clawed hand reaches up, settles itself on his hip, just below the lowest of the deep, burn-shiny puncture wounds. They’re oozing something clear and sticky, and thin trickles of blood where the fire didn’t reach deep enough to seal everything off, and Caleb can understand the instinctive _revulsion_ they’re all displaying at the sight. It’s fairly horrific, after all.  “What did you _do_?! You _promised_ , after last time, you wouldn’t-”

He’s going to say something, about bleeding out, and evils, and lessers of the two, and- then his legs decide they’re not legs any more, they’re water, and his knees refuse to lock as he crumples against Mollymauk with an unsteady exhale.

“Oof,” grunts Mollymauk, and then, “ _oooh_ , okay, okay then. Right. Down we go.”

“ _’schuldig’ng_ ,” mumbles Caleb, but he doesn’t try to right himself. His legs _really_ aren’t responding, and all things considered, it’s probably best for him to be safe and horizontal on the ground right now. Molly, blessedly _cool_ Molly, lowers him down, arms shaking a little with the strain – Caleb’s light, but Molly is no weightlifter -and settles him on his back in the dirt.

He barely has time to mumble another apology, a vague word of thanks, before there are hands on him again, tugging up his shirt. Molly inhales sharply, and Nott starts chewing him out again, high-pitched and rapid, but Caleb’s not listening. He’s not looking down, either. He knows what his abdomen looks like – dried, flaking blood, the red-black bubbling of burnt skin, the deep, ragged, charred and cauterised incisions in his side left by the wolf-beast’s teeth leaking pink-tinged plasma. There’s a sick churning in his stomach just thinking about it, just thinking about what he’d done, what he’d _had_ to do… Visuals, he thinks faintly, might tip him over into dry heaving, and he doesn’t want to find out what that would do to the growing fire in his ribs.

“Told Jester,” comes Fjord’s bass rumble, from somewhere above his head, above the haze. “She’s just comin’ over. He still- aw, sweet fuckin’ _Lady of Ravens_ , the _hell_ \- Jes’? Jes’, thinkin’ you might wanna get over here sooner rather’n later-”

Caleb closes his eyes, and makes a noise, low in the back of his throat. He’s not sure _what_ noise it is, but the vibrations of it through his neck soothe him, since running away and hiding in a corner and rocking back and forth are not options right now. “I am fine,” he says, softly, and makes a noise again, a low groaning, letting the rumble of it ease the panic-stress twisting its way through the fever.

None of them dignify the ridiculous statement with a response.

“Oh man, oh, wow, that’s- wow, that’s kinda grim,” says Beau’s voice, and there’s brown and blue in the corner of his vision. “The hell happened to-?” before there’s Fjord again, reprimanding, dragging her away – and Caleb’s attention drifts back yet again to the cold on his forehead, the fingers pressing around the wounds, the small fingers with their blunted claws clutching at his lax hand.

The hand on his forehead shifts to his cheeks, blessed relief from the flames still licking his insides, and Caleb whines. “He’s in shock,” says Mollymauk, quietly, and a person he assumes is Jester hums in agreement. He’s not sure – his eyes have slipped closed, again, and this time he’s not bothered trying to force them open again. “I’ve seen it before, when- well. Seen it before.”

“Yes, yes, I know all about shock, and those sorts of things. I _am_ a healer, you know, Molly,” Jester says, reproachfully, and then sets a cool hand against Caleb’s other cheek, bracketing his face between her and Molly. “Caleb? Caleb, are you still in there somewhere?”

“ _Mmnn_ ,” groans Caleb, to calm himself, and then, “ _Ja_. Here.” He doesn’t bother insisting he’s fine, this time.

The hand on his cheek rubs a thumb over his cheekbone, slow and soothing. “Okay. Okay, that is good. I’m going to heal you now, okay? But I am going to be touching the burns, and I- I might have to put my fingers, you know, _inside_ them, so please do not hit me if it hurts.” She sounds uncharacteristically grim, and Caleb feels… bad. He knows the soberness in her voice is because of him, and he doesn’t like it. “I will have to ask Molly to hold you down, if you do.”

“Mmnn,” says Caleb again, and in any other circumstances he might blush, but right now his skin and internal organs are trying to crawl away from his wounds in horror at the prospect of someone touching them. “I- I don’t- know if I will-”

Jester doesn’t seem to understand what he’s trying to say, and he can’t articulate it any clearer, head muzzy with fever-shock. But Molly seems to get it, because there’s hands on his shoulders, and then on his arms, right by the elbow. Molly’s not strong, but Caleb is even weaker, especially right now, and the tightness of the grip is enough to make a bubble of panic rise in his stomach. He tries to squirm – but Molly’s pressing down on his arms, and Jester’s hands are on his bare stomach, and the pain in his side flares cracked and hot enough with his writhing that he stills with a weak, breathless sob.

“ _Caleb_ ,” screeches Nott, from somewhere several feet away, as Caleb braces himself, feels Jester’s fingers slide closer, _closer_ , to the radiating pain. “No, _no_ , let me- get _off-”_

He cracks an eye open, catches a glimpse of green on green and hazy blue, as Fjord and Beau try to hold Nott back. He wishes they would let her go. He wishes he had her hands to hold onto, rough skin and blunt claws and small fingers, rather than the alien silk-and-cotton of Molly’s robe whilst the tiefling holds him down.

“ _Ist gut,_ it’s fine,” he manages, words raw like heavy stones in his throat, “Nott, I-” Then Jester’s hand reaches the lowest of the burns, and as promised, presses fingers inside the nerve-raw, oozing wound, and-

And _then_ -

When he comes back to himself, he’s shaking. There are tears cold on his face, and the space between his legs is damp enough he must have pissed himself, and he’s sobbing – soft, nonsense words in Zemnian, babbling half-sounds close _no, no, please, no_ and _stop_ and _mother_ and _father_.

He feels like the hands holding him down are the only thing holding him together, stopping the trembling shudders wracking his body from breaking him apart.

“Okay,” says a voice, gentle and lilting, and the accent and the position from above his head means it can only be Molly. The hands on his arms shift, releasing them to stroke over his shoulders, his heaving chest, the plane of his stomach newly-marred by tiny indents, the only remnants of the deep bite wounds after Jester’s healing. “Okay, okay, that’s it. Shh, shh. Come back to us, now, that’s it. That’s good. There you go.” A pause, and a press lips on his forehead, heedless of the sweat-soaked hair plastered against the skin there. “Well done, well done, it’s over. Shh, shh. Deep breaths, sweetheart, come on now. Breathe.”

He sounds… _scared_ , almost. Caleb’s not sure what to make of that. He’s not sure whether he has enough of a brain left to make _anything_ of it, or whether that was burnt away too between the fever and the fire and the healing-agony.

He makes his noise again, a tiny groan of stress-fear through the wet, gasping stutters of his breath. Molly’s skin is slightly-too-warm against his again, rather than cool, and Caleb supposes that’s a good sign – it’s certainly soothing, heat massaged gently into his aching muscles in slow circles as they gradually untense.  “Sorry,” he manages, and his voice is hoarse enough he realises he must have been screaming. “Sorry, _es- es tut mir leid-_ I didn’t… didn’t mean to…”

“No, no, it’s okay- Caleb, it’s okay.” Another voice, and when he opens his eyes, hazy with a film of tears and still unfocused from the aftermath of the healing, he sees green. Nott, it must be, the words all scratchy and squeaky, as familiar as a worn-ragged blanket. “It’s okay. It’s fine, you’re fine now. Jester fixed you up, right. Right?”

“ _Ja_ ,” he manages, steadying his breathing, reaching out fingers for her. She curls both hands around them, squeezing, and the feel of her smaller hands, her calloused skin and half-blunted claws, against his own, eases some knot in his chest he hadn’t realised was tied. “ _Ja_ , it is… done?”

She says something else, something more, but he doesn’t hear it. Exhausted, still trembling, his head on Molly’s thighs and his hand curled loose arounds Nott’s, he lets his eyes slip closed again. Safe. He’s safe, no longer burning, surrounded by people who- well. _Friends_ is a strong word, no matter how freely Molly uses it – but he thinks, perhaps, they have earned the title.

Surrounded by _friends_ , he lets his breathing even, his shoulders relax, and drifts into an exhausted sleep-unconsciousness as those warm, warm hands keep rubbing gentle circles into his skin.


End file.
